


Life is But a Drink for the Dead

by Arowen12



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Bit of a Les Mis crossover, Dubious Consent, Groundhog Day, Hamilton is a slut, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Multi, Suicide, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:07:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23151448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arowen12/pseuds/Arowen12
Summary: Alex glances at his hands and that is when he first has the inkling that something is very wrong. For the hands in front of him are not the hands he has come to know so well, they are not calloused and worn from hours of writing, nor are they scarred from battle and from the sharp end of a quill. These hands are unscarred, soft with youth, tanned in a way they have not been since he departed from Nevis.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Angelica Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton/Everyone, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 31
Kudos: 181





	Life is But a Drink for the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, we are here with another Hamilton fic (I've been writing way too much in the span of three months). Anyway, this fic is kinda inspired by Savrenim's "it feels more like a memory" which is a seriously gorgeous fic and one of the best Hamilton fics so if you haven't read it check it out. Anyways, please read the tags for the story and enjoy!

1.

The morning air is humid for July, hot against Alexander’s skin slicking his hair to his forehead. The sun is in his eyes but he can see Burr like a distinct shadow across the field holding his gun with a firm hand.

He is in the same spot his son died.

Alexander fiddles with the trigger and hears their Seconds counting. The numbers seem to echo around him splintering off into a hundred different duels, a hundred different moments all collected into now.

Burr won’t shoot. He can’t.

Alex won’t shoot. He can’t.

He’s not sure which he believes more but he has to believe that he will return home to Eliza still asleep, her hair spilling out on the pillows around her head, their children in bed. He still has so much work to do.

His arm is already moving before they even reach ten and he is aiming towards the sky.

Their guns fire at ten.

A bullet strikes him right between the ribs and Alexander hears as if from a great distance Burr’s cry, “Wait!”

But it is too late.

Alexander Hamilton dies.

2.

Alexander Hamilton lives.

He doesn’t open his eyes as sensation appears suddenly and all at once, not for a moment. He listens to the sound of his breathing and searches for the all-consuming pain of a bullet tearing through his chest, the feeling of death like a lover’s embrace around his heart and Eliza’s tears staining her cheeks.

There is no pain, only a spray of something wet on his cheeks and Alexander’s eyes flicker open too quick and he shuts them just as tight as bright light burns through him. Cautiously, Alex opens his eyes and blinks at the sea spread out before him glittering in the early morning sunlight. In the distance, he can see a shore drawing ever closer, a port with ships in abundance and the bustle of life obvious even from such a distance.

Alexander blinks confused as to when he arrived on a ship in between dying, and he is certain he died, the feeling of it has surrounded him for so long, he has held it in his hands like the guarded flame of a hearth close to heart. For a moment he contemplates that it is some strange afterlife and whatever shore approaches must be the final rest.

Someone coughs and Alex glances behind himself searching and studying the ship he is on. It is familiar in the same way one’s childhood bedroom is familiar after many years away and Alex feels suddenly stilled, frozen like a painting; immobile.

Alex glances at his hands and that is when he first has the inkling that something is very wrong. For the hands in front of him are not the hands he has come to know so well, they are not calloused and worn from hours of writing, nor are they scarred from battle and from the sharp end of a quill. These hands are unscarred, soft with youth, tanned in a way they have not been since he departed from Nevis.

There is something sinking in Alex’s chest as he rushes towards the ship’s cabins his feet guide him as if they are familiar with the terrain, and maybe they are, until he pauses in front of a grimy mirror. A scream traps itself in his throat at the visage that greets him, it is a face he has not seen in many years.

There are no crows’ feet in the corners of his eyes, the grief that Philip’s death marked him with is gone, his hair is no longer grey but the rich colour of his youth, his eyes are bright where they stare back at him no older than nineteen.

Is this witchcraft? Alex wonders dully as he stumbles out of the cabins and back into the sunlight swaying towards the prow of the ship as if he has just gained his sea legs and stares at the approaching shore. It is close enough for Alexander to remember this sight, this unbuilt nation of America that promises so much.

He has always been praised of a sharp mind and Alex connects the dots with the speed of lightning and realises that for some reason, some strange twist of fate or fortune he has been supplanted in the body of his youth with his mind intact on that day which he stepped onto his dear America’s shores.

There are no words and no breath in Alexander’s lungs as he grips the wood of the ship and devours the shoreline his thoughts begin to race as he thinks, I have a chance to make things right. And there is so much to right. God, he has made so many mistakes. He will save John, and Lafayette if he can, he won’t cheat on Eliza there will be no Reynolds pamphlet, and if the circumstance aligns that he duels with Burr once more he will shoot first and his aim will be true.

The streets of New York chill his body which is still and will forever remain unfamiliar to colder climates. Time has dulled Alexander’s memories of this strange period before the revolution as he immerses himself in his studies and watches as the waves begin to crest around him.

He is walking down the street when he spots him, Burr is young, only a year older, but he stands out in the crowds, has always caught Alexander’s eyes. For a moment, he is sorely tempted to march across the busy square and let his fist meet Burr’s face as if it might ease the lingering ache of a bullet wound, he has not and will not receive. He does not, he is old enough that some patience has been instilled (through care of his children if nothing else).

Instead, he strides forward and cannot help but ask, “Pardon me, are you Aaron Burr, sir?”

Burr whirls around and it is strange this first meeting repeated as Alex can see behind the mask which once confused him so. Burr is a man of minuet gestures both in politics and facial expressions, his lips twitch ever so slightly down as he responds and it is only years of knowing the man that reveal this to Alex.

They converse and Alex follows his script near perfectly and he cannot muffle his excitement at seeing this man so young and it seems to be infectious as he is gifted with one of Burr’s rare smiles and offered a drink.

It is warm inside the tavern and Alex soaks in it as a sponge might soak water desperately wishing for the parlour of his home with its fireplace. The thought reminds Alex of what he may have left behind, the debt he pressed unfairly to Eliza’s shoulders and the man who passed it into his hands is sitting in front of him and his thoughts must show on his face, he has never been good at hiding them, as Burr asks, “Are you okay sir?”

Before he can reply the door slams open, bringing with it a gust of cool wind and a familiar trio of faces. They are so young. Lafayette is yet unburdened by the war and the weight of his letters are absent, Hercules does not hold the perpetual exhaustion of the paranoid spy and is instead something suffused in warmth. And John. It has been so many years since last Alex saw his face and it is still sweet, the taste of summer hot and filling in the dead of winter.

Burr groans as they spot their table and Alexander settles into the rhythm of the dance. He has always been adaptable and adept at hiding pain and so he tucks the open wounds their youth causes away and lets his words spring forth like a fountain as the drink flows between them and revolution is heady on their tongues.

War is familiar, the endless sucking mud, the blood and shit, the gore. Like so much the memories have been dulled by time but they are newly awakened by the thunder of the canons and the feel of the musket in his hands. John jokes that he was a born soldier and Alex cannot help but reply uncomfortably grave that he has always fought to survive. It seems to resonate in John and his eyes are heavy on Alex’s with the weight of something yet unconsummated.

Alexander is called to Washington’s tent and recalling the past dismissal he waits a few moments more in the cold air until his fingers start to lose feeling before he enters. Washington is familiar in his age and yet still younger, he has always seemed untouchable by time until he wasn’t, and when he glances at Alexander familiar emotions chase through his chest.

Burr narrows his eyes at Alexander as they speak together and Burr finishes his last thought before Washington dismisses him and it is just the two of them in the tent. It is strange that though his body doesn’t reflect it he is of a similar age to Washington now.

He accepts, there is no other choice but to rise up and the correspondences he writes are passionate, elegant, and drafted mostly from his memories of which ones seemed to draw the most attention. He itches to write familiar passages and solidify them in time’s endless walls and satisfies himself with essays on whatever subject he has time to dedicate the thought to amidst the rush of war.

His friends (and it is strange to be older and yet acting young) quickly learn of what they consider his ‘horrifying’ work ethic and Alexander is forced into increasingly ludicrous attempts to escape their efforts to wrangle him into a cot or Hercules’ efforts to feed him. At one point he spends much of the day sitting behind Washington’s chair with his writing desk and it feels achingly similar to the games of hide and seek he played with his children. Washington seems not to mind his presence when he inevitably seeks refuge from his friends and Alex finds himself speaking far more freely than he had in the past to the man.

Before he is quite aware of it winter settles over the camp and with it the Winter’s ball. Hercules forces a suit on him and Alex stares at the rich shade of green for a long moment before the tears appear and John whispers, “I think you broke him.”

He embraces Hercules carefully and thinks of the friend who he had spoken rarely to in that distant past, thinks of all he has lost. They share concerned glances above his head like he might shatter into a thousand sharp pieces if not treated carefully and perhaps they are right.

The Schuyler sisters are radiant at the ball, Angelica Schuyler is a pleasure to converse with and for a moment he considers her as his wife, she is intelligent almost frighteningly so and he knows they could be great together as Marc Anthony and Cleopatra were great. But then he is guided to Eliza and his heart stutters in his chest remembering the love which she so freely gave him until he forced his own fall from her favour; and still she forgave him.

“If it takes fighting a war to meet you, it would have been worth it.”

He writes letters to her, builds palaces and cathedrals with her beauty and kindness and in the dark nights at camp he presses himself to John kissing the stubble of his jaw with abandon and wishes there is a way to have both. But the war is a temporary thing and so to must be this closeness with John, Alex reasons, after all John has a wife and a child. He will not let the melancholy that sits deep in his John’s chest claim him again.

He marries Eliza and John slips welcomed into their bed and Alex thinks he has never known such happiness and could find it in no one but the two people at his side.

Monmouth is an utter mess once more and even the new closeness between himself and the General cannot prevent Lee’s appointment. Alex feels colder, unbound without Hercules’ warm grounding presence, and in the aftermath of the battle it feels somehow worse.

The duel occurs and Alex is dragged before Washington like a disobedient dog and the words bubble and froth in his throat but he does not yell only asks quietly, “Please do not call me son your excellency.”

Perhaps his exhaustion shows, it is so tiring to repeat the same events and yet act as if the past does not burden him, for the anger disperses as quickly as it appeared and when Washington hugs him Alexander sinks into the embrace.

He visits his wife and presses his hands to the swell of her stomach, to their child with tears in his eyes as he thinks of what he will become. Philip was so bright and Alex will not let his son’s spark be extinguished once more.

Yorktown is brilliant, it is fire in his veins, singing through his heart as he leads a command with John beside him (it was hard to convince him to abandon the South for this battle but Alex is nothing if not convincing) and a week later it is over. The war feels as if it has passed quickly, a blink and he is standing at the docks with Lafayette.

“Read this if the Bastille falls.”

Alex pleads pressing a letter into the Marquis’ hands, Lafayette gives him a strange look but nods and tucks the letter away, his hands are warm on Alex’s shoulders the kisses on his cheeks linger long after the ship ceases to exist on the horizon.

Alexander gets to work.

He cannot resist the temptation and opens his practice near Burr’s once more, (and the man with a resigned expression often forces him home late at night) it is also close to Hercules’ shop and he makes an effort to stop by even if it is to ask after a suit of his own. He receives letters from John about the strange family he has cobbled together and the words are heavy with a sadness that Alex cannot relieve though he reasons at least John is alive to feel that sadness.

Mostly, Alex writes pulling forth words from his memory and new ones twisting them together to form something new and greater; they hold all the passion of his youth and the intellect of his age. He forces himself to make time for his wife and son, holding Philip in his arms and feeling the weight of the future drawing his shoulders down. Elizabeth can tell there is some sorrow he holds, she is too perceptive for anything else, but Alex murmurs about the war and it is enough to quell her curiosity; once upon a time it had been the case.

The Constitutional Convention occurs once more after the failing of the Articles of Confederation and Alex cannot resist the temptation to speak for long hours on the necessity of a strong federal branch with a clear head of power.

Alex is tempted to leave Burr alone; the Federalist Papers would flourish under Burr’s articulate intelligence but it is not a necessity. Still, he finds his feet lead him to the man’s door and his hand his knocking before he can really convince himself otherwise.

Burr refuses, but at least Alex can say he tries as he enlists John Jay and Madison, he cannot help but be cool in his interactions with the man thinking of what they will become when Jefferson returns. Alex writes, he writes the first fifty-one essays and they are a near mirror of what he wrote before, then he writes twenty more essays simply because he can.

He accepts the position of Treasury from Washington, feeling like an actor performing the same show for many long weeks. He is exhausted, by the children he cares for, by his friends, by his wife, by his duty to the country he builds, he feels he understands Washington better and desires to retire and live a simple life.

But his is not to be a simple life, he will solidify his reputation, his legacy, in his deeds and not a quiet shadow of retreat.

Jefferson returns in all his pompous arrogancy and Alex bites down on the anger that swells in his gut at the sight of the man, he does not bite down on his words and Washington pulls him aside concerned and mentions the potential of removal from office. Except this time, John is there and the South falls between John and Madison with the sway of the wind and so he does have some of the votes, just not all of them.

Alex promises to go upstate once he has reached an agreement with Jefferson and he can see the disappointment on his wife and Angelica’s face and it sinks into his chest a reminder of what he failed to do, but he resolves that he will not make the same mistake.

Maria Reynolds appears at his door and Alex does not see the great beauty that so enamoured him but instead the fading bruises and the youth to her features. He walks her home and directs her to Burr who he recalls handled her case in the past. She pauses in the door and turns red and Alex is tempted for a moment, tempted to step inside and let the exhaustion fall away. Instead, he presses a kiss to her hand and leaves entering the emptiness of his home with a slump of defeated shoulders.

“Madison and Jefferson are merciless.”

Burr advises and he genuinely looks concerned for Alex, his hand warm on Alex’s shoulder.

“Hate the sin, love the sinner.”

Alex replies and stares into Burr’s dark eyes for a long moment before he turns, decisions are happening after dinner.

They agree, it is too good of a deal not to and when they demand it of him Alex sinks to his knees and ignores the way Madison’s eyes sharpen on his face. Alex wonders if the façade he holds onto so tightly is beginning to crack.

Elizabeth’s hand is tight around his arm when they see Burr in the streets after his win. It is a strange defining moment, before and after, before Burr stepped into the political arena, and the aftermath. Alex smiles at his wife, let’s her glide through the conversation polite to a fault, lets it simmer the anger, the pain of a gunshot, until it is hidden away.

The Bastille falls and Alex’s chest is tight, he thinks of the Guillotine, of Robespierre, Napoleon, and the letter he had pressed into Lafayette’s hands with shaking fingers. Hercules’ welcomes him even though it is late, makes him a mug of something warm and when Alex begins to cry, he lets him sob into his broad shoulders.

Lafayette appears two weeks later with Adrienne and his children, he looks worn, older, Alex never got to see his friend beyond the golden touch of youth. Laf’s arms are tight around his shoulders and his voice his low barely a whisper when he says, “Thank you mon ami.”

“Of course.”

Alex replies and they don’t speak of it again.

Washington steps down and Alex considers for a moment submitting a ballot, running against John Adams for President. He would win, Adams doesn’t have quite the reputation of absolute and utter uselessness yet but Alex could change that easily. But he is tired and thinks he has survived worse than Adam’s presidency (it is strange to say however, that he did not survive Jefferson’s).

Adam fires him with taunts and slurs and Alex responds in kind decimating the chance of a second term with a grim smile; there is something passionless to the words but Alex resolves if it is for his legacy, he can do it all again.

Madison, Jefferson, and Burr approach him again though he wonders what evidence they might have this time. They try to insinuate that he has engaged in speculation and Alex laughs and replies, “I have been audited already, rigorously. My papers are orderly check them again and again and see consistency. I never spent a cent that wasn’t mine.”

He pulls out the receipts, the checking stubs, all of it and watches the twist of Jefferson’s face as he states, “Sodomy is still illegal in the United States.”

“You would know all about that wouldn’t you Jefferson?”

Alex retorts and raises an insinuating brow, Burr glances between Madison who is suddenly very red, and Jefferson who is coughing, and then to Alex with wide eyes. Alex shrugs and watches them leave with no legs to stand on.

Philip comes to him with the duel and Alex rises to his feet and rests a hand on Philip’s shoulder, perhaps he could have been a better father but he will not fail his son in this aspect. Alex speaks to George Eacker and the duel is called off.

It still comes down to Burr and Jefferson.

Alex sits in his study surrounded by his words, his legacy, John has written him letters about the election, Alex is not certain what to do. Oh, he knows that he could support Aaron and anger Jefferson further but prevent Burr from the presidency. Or he could cast Jefferson his support and maybe it will all lead back to the duel and Alex will shoot first.

(he has not seen the aftermath of his death, does not know what Jefferson made of his presidency, what they will say about him)

Alex supports Burr and the aftermath feels blurry, unreal. His son is alive, his relationship with Eliza is distant but not damaged, and Burr appoints him to his cabinet with a tiny smile. Alex accepts and continues to write about the necessity for emancipation of those in bondage with John beside him.

He lives to see the war of 1812 and his children fight in it. Madison is president then and he attempts to enlist Alexander as a successor to Washington. He refuses and it goes to court where the Judge agrees that Alex isn’t capable (he has a cane now you see) of holding such a position.

He and John work tirelessly to pass a bill that begins the gradual emancipation of those who bondage, he helps Eliza raise funds for the Washington monument, and lets her handle the orphanage when she threatens to castrate him. He dies an old man, not as old as the others, with Burr at his side, John and Eliza each holding one of his hands.

He thinks it must be right. It has to be right. Alex dies.

3.

Something rocks beneath his feet and Alex inhales sharply at the feel of a fine mist against his face. His eyes are shut as he searches for the embrace of death which so tenderly cradled him mere moments ago. Alex’s eyes jerk open and he blinks through the blinding pain and stares at the sparkling sea, the shore drawing closer with the ships in its harbour and thinks _no._

It isn’t possible Alex thinks hands gripping the railing in front of him, and they are his youthful hands once more, not the veined and paper-thin ones of his antiquity. Laughter slips from his lips and Alex thinks that the whole situation is far from possible.

What had he done wrong? Alex wonders was there a reason he was here once more youthful and on the prow of ship heading towards America once more and not the lands promised after death? Had he failed in some measure? Was he supposed to shoot Burr? Let Jefferson become President? Was there some strict hierarchy of events to be obeyed by the universe before he could at last rest?

In between his studies, which Alex devotes only the requisite time to complete the material, he pours through the library searching for tomes that might explain his cruel circumstances. There are only whispers of prophets who see into the future, but Alex is certain it is not a dream that haunts his mind, it is too vivid. There is no great crusade in his lifetime as for Jeanne D’Arc or John the Baptist unless one considers the abolishment of slavery a crusade which Alex must take up.

It is uncertain swirling inside Alex like a Hurricane with no guiding force, the winds whip every which way tossing his theories across pages and into the late hours until he is left only with the resolution that there must be a task he needs to complete before whatever cycle has trapped his life might end.

He meets Burr once more and yet the script changes, it is Burr who finds him in a crowded street and asks if he is Alexander Hamilton, on the basis of his recent publication on the possibility of purgatory (of which he suspects himself dwelling in).

They speak and it is weird to see Burr so youthful when Alex has known him at the end of his life, when the years of which he has lived have already began to pile onto his shoulders so that every action feels weary but for moments of joy. They enter the bar and Alex muffles a smile when Hercules, Lafayette, and John enter. It is a bitter smile for while he knows them well, they know nothing of him.

Every action feels repetitious, the same song and dance, the same words that he must inject enthusiasm into, Alex had thought he had perfected acting in his last life but quickly finds that he settles into the role of the young upstart with ease and a better performance than the last; he is a consummate actor.

Alex lets the events of the war play out as they had before, but for small changes, suggestions to Washington that aid in lowering the morality rate, or which senator is more inclined to certain causes (he remembers the desperation of his first life and the feel of cool tile beneath his knees in the dead of the winter). If it means the war will end a few weeks early then Alex prays it is not enough to destroy whatever tentative balance he seeks to maintain.

Alex writes though the words feel stiff, as if they have been forced through a mill, refined until perfection. But perfection is lacking, it is dull, senseless, boring. John and Lafayette praise his letters to congress but Alex feels only apathetic. Still, he cannot stay his hand for writing has become as entwined with his character as the sun to the earth.

The Winter’s Ball approaches suddenly and without warning and Alex is reminded by John as they curl in the aftermath, his breath warm against Alex’s neck. He realises that he might partner with Eliza again, have their children and raise them once more. The idea is strangely tiring, perhaps not so strangely, but Alex feels empty at the idea of a family where it once inspired and lit a blaze inside his chest.

Still, he flirts with Angelica and lets her lead him to Eliza. Alex thinks she doesn’t deserve this not really, not when he is so damaged by all he has seen and lived but he is poor and she has always been present in his life. It is easy enough to quote letters and write poetry but Alex’s heart isn’t in it. Still, they are married six months later and Alex’s hands are gentle on Eliza’s cheeks when he presses a kiss to her lips.

The war proceeds and dully Alex realises that it is almost over, it is as if it has passed him in a blur of blood and letters. John leaves for the south and Alex doesn’t protest, presses a last lingering kiss to John’s lips and lets him go. He does the same for Lafayette in the harbour after Yorktown, one kiss to each cheek and it feels like a confession as much as a farewell.

Alex works next door to Burr and they spend late nights philosophising, he never realised Burr knew the bible so well, and in the early morning with drink numbing his senses Alex casts aside the actor for a little while. Burr stares at him shocked and whispers, “You are so empty Alexander what happened?”

“I have seen too much, lived too long. I am tired.”

Alex confesses and the moment is tender, it is static electricity gathering between the two and Alex could lean forward and press a kiss to Burr’s and he knows he would respond in kind. The moment passes and Burr drags him home to Eliza and their children (only four this time, he cannot bear more).

He goes to the Constitutional Convention once more, he cannot speak for six hours, not as he once might have, instead he is sharp and concise. He knocks on Burr’s door late at night and asks once more if Burr will write with him.

He says yes.

They write a total of one hundred essays and Alex writes fifty-one the words blurring late into the night as Eliza watches on with hallow eyes. Late at night he whispers apologies into the soft skin of her shoulder.

Jefferson returns and Alex feels alive debating with the man, Jefferson has always been smart and he keeps up with Alex and he feels alive again even just a little bit. John is not there and Alex needs the votes, Burr stares at him with sad eyes as they pass him in the streets and Alex musters a half-smile, an actor’s smile.

Maria Reynolds comes to his door but Alex doesn’t answer, he is upstate with the children and Angelica for the summer. It is pleasant to play with his children in the lake, and at night Eliza’s hands chase away the chill, Angelica’s are a welcome surprise.

Madison and Jefferson agree and he sees that glint in their eyes and sinks to his knees lets them do what they want as long as he gets his debt plan through; for the country, for his legacy.

He isn’t angry at Burr when he sees him in the streets, just nods and pats him on the shoulder. Burr stares at Alex’s retreating form with wide shocked eyes, Alex wonders if the man has learned to see beneath the actor as Alex learned to see past Burr’s impartialness.

Again, Washington steps down, again Adams fires him and Alex responds in kind, again they come to him with baseless accusations and the newspapers spark at the mere mention of rumours, but it is only that, rumours.

Philip comes to him hands shaking and Alex presses the solid weight of the pistols into his son’s hands and doesn’t think about how Philip won’t come home, or how Angelica will react when she hears of her brother’s death.

He imagines he can hear the gun shots in his home and rises slowly to his feet, his body is still spry but his soul seems weighted to his feet with its age. Philip dies in Eliza’s arms and Alex wipes the hair out of his son’s face and presses a kiss to his brow. How many times has he buried his children?

Alex supports Jefferson and prays it is enough to end whatever loop is soul is caught in. Burr writes furiously and Alex responds in kind though all he feels is exhausted. The letters circulate and Alex finds himself in Weehawken, the pistol in his hand is heavy as he stares at Burr.

He thinks he is going to shoot. That is what he should do, to try and end the cycle. If it doesn’t then he will wake to another life, another Burr. At the count of ten Alex shoots and his aim is true, Burr’s is as well.

Alex thinks _no_ and watches Burr collapse, he feels the bullet strike between his ribs a familiar blaring hot agony and as he stares at the blue sky above him, he prays that this his last life, and that Burr lives.

Alexander dies.

4.

Alexander opens his eyes with a curse and stares at the approaching shore his hands grasping at his chest for a bullet wound that isn’t there. Fuck! Alexander curses tears brimming as he squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a ragged breath. He wanted it to be the last time. It was supposed to be the last time.

What is he supposed to do? What has he done or failed to do?

With a start, Alexander realises he doesn’t care. Why should he try to follow some absent God’s plan, or adhere to what the universe wants of his soul if it won’t provide a map or clues? It is a freeing thought and he tips his head back and laughs thinking of what he wants to do.

Alex has always loved law, he knows it as well as he has come to know his own hands at each stage of life, but in this life he reads through volumes of science, then maths, then languages glutting himself on whatever knowledge is available if only to avoid the weary tide of darkness that appears when he is not looking.

He doesn’t necessarily avoid looking for Burr or his friends but merely spends most hours of the day holed up in the library pouring over one dusty tome or another which offers little opportunity for social engagement.

Somehow, Burr still manages to find him in the streets and Alexander turns staring at this Burr, so unweighted by the loss of his wife, all that the world has taken from him still ages him to Alexander’s eyes. He lets the young man lead him to the bar and thinks of a late night and the spark hanging between them and thinks why not?

The bar is crowded and Alex barely flirts with Burr and watches him flush before the doors slam open and they burst in. Alex watches with something nostalgic and thinks about being so young, so hopeful, and God he sounds like an old man but he is one, isn’t he?

Still, the song and dance are the same it’s a matter of whether Alex is willing to join in. He speaks with them but is not the roaring cry it once was, it is quiet but the words resonate all the same, he has learned how to hold a people’s heart with his words.

Later he will press sweet kisses unto Lafayette and John in their shared tent with Hercules a grounding warmth between them and John will sigh out, “Let us take care of you just this once dear Alexander, you have taken care of us far too often.”

And he will let them and Lafayette will not call him petite lion but he will say, “You have a thousand eyes.”

Alex enjoys it while it lasts. He speaks to Washington about the battles and says he has a contact among the redcoats who he cannot reveal. What he says is often corroborated by their spies and he feels the war slip between his fingers like grains of sand.

At the Winter’s ball Alex sees Eliza and thinks of the coldness of his own home, thinks of the suffering her put her through and thinks _no._ Alex catches sight of Angelica and thinks of vague thoughts of what they could be together, he asks her for a dance and lets his sharp wit keep the conversation afoot as he gracefully twirls her.

By the end of the night she has given him permission to write her and Alex pretends not to notice Eliza’s heartbroken expression, it is for the best, but it doesn’t take away the ache. Six weeks later they are in their wedding bed and Angelica’s hand is warm on his shoulder as she states, “You keep a lot of secrets Alexander.”

“I do.”

“I want to say I know who I married but I don’t think I do.”

She says eventually and Alex turns and looks into her eyes and it is like a dam has broken inside his chest, inside his head as with gasping words he tells her what battles his soul has traversed, what streets he has walked what already feels like too many times to count.

Angelica cries with him and wipes away his tears when they are dry and says, “And you can find no reason or cause?”

“Nothing.”

“Then I suppose we shall make the most of this and I pray you will remember this life if you must suffer through a hundred more.”

For that he presses kisses to her collarbones and lets it ease the ache inside his chest.

The war resumes and quickly hurtles towards its end. Alex pleads with John that he might stay for the battle of Yorktown rather than head south and when John is insistent, Alex cannot help but shout, “Go die then! That is what awaits you in the south.”

“You have seen it?”

It is Lafayette who asks, lounging in their tent with all the coiled grace of a predator. Alex glances between his two friends who will be parted from him shortly through circumstances he cannot control and the simple facilities of life and nods.

“In a way.”

“Alex?”

John says his name carefully and he feels tender, a sunburn still raw to the touch, he is so tired, tired of losing his friends, of watching the same events play out with only the slightest shift in circumstance. A whole lifetime of experiences pilling onto his shoulders over and over again, it is too much to bear.

He breaks down crying and John’s arms are warm around his shoulders and Lafayette’s voice soothing as his fingers brush away the tears that quicken on his cheeks; they share a glance over his head and assume that this is what has troubled their friend since they have known him. Alex composes himself with time and waits unsure what to expect of his friends.

“I’ll stay.”

John says finally and the night slips away in the press of their bodies against his.

The war ends and John returns to the south and his family, Lafayette to France and its dawning revolution. Alex imparts what wisdom he can on his friends and wonders if it is the last time he will see them in this lifetime.

Angelica bears him a son and a daughter, twins, and Alex cradles his children in his arms and hear Angelica say, “It suits you, fatherhood.”

“I wish I knew better how to be one.”

Her arm wraps around his shoulders before she whirls away off to write another pamphlet on women’s suffrage or to scare a few delegates into passing certain bills. Alex watches her leave and thinks, knows, he loves her.

He opens a practice next to Burr, it is almost habit at this point. They spend late nights talking about everything from religion to literature, sometimes they argue, but often it is companionable. The hours trickle into that golden state, like something akin to summer, and one night when Aaron (how weird to think of him as Aaron) breaks out the whiskey conversation dies and it only the space between them.

Alex fills it and Aaron responds like a man shown water in the desert. They clash and fight against each other like fire, like oil and water, but it is a beautiful sort of clash as Alex drags his fingers gently over Aaron’s cheek.

They don’t speak of it.

The convention occurs and Alex is tired but he has always felt a need, something embedded into his soul, to till the soil that is America. His speech is succinct, persuasive (he learned it all from Burr) and his essays though many are equally simple. Burr agrees to write and they spend many nights side by side, some nights distracted.

As always, the strange peace after war is disrupted by Jefferson’s arrival. Alex doesn’t rip into Jefferson, he is polite, political, he still tears his arguments to shreds as if they are wet parchment beneath his hands. He has the votes, or at least most of them, John is nothing but charming when he wants to be, still.

He tells Burr about Maria Reynolds and goes upstate with Angelica and their children (three and no more) it is nice to take a break and speaking with Angelica rouses the fire in him that he thought doused by time and weariness.

Madison and Jefferson regard him warily and Alex grins and guides their hands, makes it something they won’t, can’t forget, and when they are begging he extracts an agreement. They still get the Capitol but it is hardly a loss.

Aaron is almost predictable; it is always this deal that sparks a desire in him to see what it is like from the inside. Alex pretends at anger and slams him against the wall in his office, but it is only a pretense and Aaron can read him far too well.

Madison and Jefferson attempt to corner him once more and Alex laughs at the badly concealed desperation and sinks to his knees, watches first Madison and then Jefferson surrender, there is something powerful to it.

His son comes to him in his study mentioning a duel and Alex smiles and directs him to his mother, who handles the situation with all the poise and grace of a Schuyler sister and a furious mother; George Eacker issues a public apology.

Elections approach and for a brief moment Alexander contemplates running but he is still exhausted and as much as he would like to push women’s suffrage and the emancipation of all those in bondage he can’t. Not now. Still he casts his bid for Aaron and enjoys the results, immensely.

Jefferson is furious and Alex is surprised when he is challenged to a duel. The pistol is heavy in his hands and he ends up at Weehawken; it is always Weehawken. Jefferson is a confident figure across from him and Alex already knows the outcome of the duel. He spares an apology for Angelica and their children and thinks sarcastically, _never gonna be president now_ as Jefferson’s bullet finds its place between his ribs.

Alex dies.

5.

Alex sucks in a ragged breath fingers hovering over his chest feeling the phantom ache of a bullet in his chest. The ship’s spray is pleasant on his skin and Alex tilts his head back for a moment just breathing, feeling his youth again.

He opens his eyes and stares at the ever-approaching shore, he is almost tired of the sight but there is something novel to it every time. Alex rests his arms on the bars and leans forward peering into the water below. He is unsure what to make of this life, his fifth by all accounts.

Should he attempt to follow the previous path and see if he might stumble upon the correct sequence of events? Or maybe he will attempt the same life with a different ending? Alex considers the ideas sifting through the memories that clog his mind, already some grow blurry though his first life feels vivid, crystalline where the others are but fogged glass.

What if he becomes President?

Alex can do it; he knows it is not the most difficult task he could set before himself. But if he is to do it, he will have to sow the seeds early, become friendly with senator and common man alike, forge an identity that the people might admire. And then? Then he could attempt to add Amendments for women’s suffrage and emancipation.

It swirls and collects in his chest and Alex likes the feeling, the feeling of a goal. His last life had been listless carried by those around him towards what feels as if it has become an inevitable conclusion.

He searches out Burr once more and finds him in the crowded streets, his eyes always drawn to him like a moth is drawn to a flame. It is the same song and dance and Alex feels like an actor cast in the same role with a twist as they enter the bar talking about the revolution.

Lafayette, Hercules, and John enter the bar and it digs into his chest, his last farewell to Lafayette and John’s letter tucked in his breast pocket at Weehawken at dawn. Burr’s hand is warm on his shoulder and he shakes away the flashes of memory and finds his que stepping into place.

Alex’s feet move through the war in much the same way as his first life, he writes letters to congress that are artfully crafted but nonetheless ignored. When the winter appears in all its terror and hunger Alex sinks to his knees and writes letters that go unanswered.

The winter is not entirely cold with the warmth of his friends at his side and Alex takes what comfort he can in the warmth of their flesh in the long days that stretch around him and flash inside his head.

At the Winter’s Ball, Alex let’s Angelica lead him towards Eliza and thinks of his last life and Angelica’s quick words. Eliza is radiant and it steals his breath once more and Alex feels truly young again as he flirts with her and twirls her around the room. Where Angelica has always stirred his fire into a blaze, Eliza is the candle that guides his light and keeps him from burning out too soon.

Alex strokes his fingers over the smooth expanse of John’s back and asks him to stay, speaks of ending slavery, of what he wants to do and how he plans to do it. John rolls over and stares at him in the dark of their tent like he is half-mad or otherwise some kind of saint. John agrees and Alex laughs relieved and kisses him.

After the war, Alex holds Philip in his arms carefully stroking his downy fluff and thinks of what he wanted so long ago, to build a nation for his children. How strange how dreams are so easily shed and built.

He practices law alongside Burr and it is easy to find camaraderie with the man when he knows all the paths that lead to his heart. It is easier still to wait until Burr presses against him early one evening and mumbles something about, “Infuriating hair.”

Alexander goes along with it and savours the familiar taste of it all.

At the convention Alexander establishes himself as well-spoken, balanced, but with strong beliefs, he is at his best succinct and persuasive. He becomes the actor and the audience is his to command through his essays, his words, his persona.

Jefferson returns and Alexander is pleasant to the man even as he recalls the bite of a bullet digging into his chest. It slips through only slightly in their cabinet meetings but Alex finds no fault in that as arguing with Jefferson is always a pleasure of a twisted sort.

Alexander doesn’t go upstate with Angelica and Eliza though he presses a promise that after this summer he will abandon his work for his family for at least a week. Maria Reynolds appears as if a phantom and Alex studies her in the half-light of the street as he walks her back to her apartment and thinks of himself so young, blind, stupid, throwing away everything because he needed to save someone.

He presses the money into her hands and directs her to Burr feeling as if the script has taken over his life once more suffocating the performance. Still, she blushes and accepts the advice gratefully and attempts to thank him.

Alex returns home and prepares for the dinner; Burr’s concern warms him through the chill of it and Alex smiles let’s his eyes talk and waits until the bait is accepted. He sinks to his knees and convinces Madison and Jefferson that it really is the best idea to support him (he convinces a few of the more stubborn senators this way but Alex has long learned where his pride falls and it is not in this).

Washington studies him in his office with something half amused and half concerned to his expression as he asks, “Considering running for President, Alexander?”

“Yes sir.”

“You’ll at the very least be better than Adams.”

“A horse could do Adams’ job more competently.”

Alex replies and Washington laughs, the deep hearty sort of laugh Alex rarely hears from the man. Eliza frowns when she hears what he is planning but after a moment she smiles and settles her hand on his arm always behind him. John laughs and says that most of the south will be divided but will follow him.

He receives public support from Washington and the Federalist party for once is in agreement.

He wins in a landslide.

There is a moment where Alex feels very distant from everything, the concept of him actually being President a far and strange thing that is suddenly very real. Then Jefferson stomps into his office with a dark frown and the distance shrinks into nothing as Alex remembers that Jefferson is his Vice President.

“Can we agree to at least try to work together?”

Alex asks as Jefferson sprawls in a chair across from him and huffs, “Yeah sure if you promise not to destroy the country. I know what you want Hamilton and as much as I support emancipation (a hypocritical lie) it ain’t happening.”

He rises from his chair and stalks across the room towards Jefferson and smiles, low and dangerous as he settles onto the chair and leans in to whisper, “I think it can be arranged. Don’t you?”

Women’s suffragette isn’t easy, it is like fighting against an army of blindfolded men, but Abigail Adams and Martha Washington throw their voices behind his bill along with most of the women in the country who threaten to walk out on their husbands, many of who sit in congress and have little to no experience at anything from cooking to childcare. The amendment is passed and Eliza shows her pleasure at the bill the same night.

Emancipation is a different sort of battle. Battle would be too kind a word for whatever sort of war he is attempting to wage. He spends many late nights at gatherings with John and Jefferson by his side cajoling, blackmailing, seducing, promising senators with a plan he has been thinking of since his first life, a plan that can work.

He is tired, exhausted even, by the sheer stubbornness of the senators, by the weight of his past lives pressing on his shoulders, threatening to crush him into the ground until he is but the dust they came from. He understands Washington well and desires the rest that he will hopefully gain once his term is finished; he misses his family, his wife and their children.

There is an assassination attempt while he in his office speaking to Burr, who has pledged his support to the cause wholeheartedly, a gunshot, the feeling of a bullet tearing through his body, not through his ribs, not this time, but his chest all the same.

The amendment is passed and Alexander is confined to a chair for the rest of his life unable to feel his legs.

“It is lucky you survived.”

The doctor states and Alex laughs, it is a touch broken and both Burr and Jefferson are concerned for him. Alex waves it aside, he cannot say that he has survived worse but he has certainly learned to live with worse.

It doesn’t matter, not really, what matters is the gradual emancipation of slaves over a number of years along with compensation for those who own them. When the option for a second term appears, Alexander declines and thinks that this is certainly a legacy.

He returns home and is often visited by John and Burr, Jefferson who won the Presidency visits often as well either to commiserate with him about how hard the job actually is, or to gloat about whatever he thinks might annoy Alex.

It is almost nice, though he watches his children run through the streets and wishes he could chase after them, wishes he did not have to depend on Eliza so utterly. She confides later that she doesn’t mind too much, that she feels as if she is actually helping him; he reassures her that her presence is enough.

Philip comes to him with the duel once more, though the rumours are far more unsavoury, Alex tells his son he will speak to Eacker. The man seems to recognise that Alex was the President and even bound by the wheeled chair Alexander can be imposing (it is mostly him mimicking Washington); he apologises.

Alexander and Eliza move upstate away from politics where Alex can watch the effect of the laws he helped pass into existence. Their friends visit often along with their children once they are grown. It does little to settle the ache of his injury and the past which weighs heavily on him.

He lives to an almost old age, but time has never been kind to him and with his family surrounding him Alex prays that it is enough and let’s the darkness surround him thinking only of death’s sweet embrace.

He dies at the age of sixty.

6.

The swaying of the ship beneath his feet is familiar in a bone-weary sort of way, in the way that a repetitive motion becomes familiar until it is focused on. Alex slumps forward, the motion strange to his mind after being bound to a wheeled chair for so long. He opens his eyes and stares at the familiar horizon with something heavy weighing on his chest, the sight which once promised his future now only fills him with dread.

Still, there is some joy in having the use of his legs once more and he walks back and forth across the ship with shaky legs until they remember the confidence of his youth. Alex is unsure what his course is to be this life. He is tired of the same series of events only marginally different, the same people, the same politics and writing, he longs for something different, anything that might change his situation.

Alex studies law dispassionately and walks the streets of New York with a heavy brow as he considers his options. He has always fought for the Revolution. And why wouldn’t he? The American populace suffers under the corrupt hand of the British Empire and though the start of their country is laid with its own flaws Alexander cannot imagine a future where the American populace loses.

He wonders if he could change history so drastically. If he fought for the Loyalists and whispered of the troop’s movements, of Trenton, Brandywine, Saratoga, would the British be able to win? If they won what would become of the Colonies? It isn’t something Alex contemplates lightly; it is the sort of thought that after so many wars, so many years it seems unthinkable.

But if this life is just a drop in the bucket why shouldn’t he try?

Alex publishes a pamphlet on the necessity of the British’s Empire’s control of the Colonies. He words it carefully; he is a talented debater and that means he is more than talented at slipping into the mind of his opponents. He is far more convincing than Seabury at the least who is as repetitious and dull as a church sermon.

He sees Burr in the streets and turns in the other direction staunchly avoiding all of his old friends. The loneliness of this strange cycle of lives seems all the starker without their warmth and he spends many nights pouring over texts without a care for his health.

When the war kicks into action Alex enrolls with the Loyalists, there are more than a few questioning glances when he cannot help but snort at the rhetoric and it becomes a common enough excuse for him to state, “I’m fighting for my family, Scottish pride and all that.”

It sets something bitter on his tongue every time because his father has never been a part of his life, gone and fucked off to the winds and even though the ache of it is many lifetimes passed, Alex still feels the wound’s presence regardless. It suffices and where it does not Alex’s efforts in the war do.

His is appointed aide-de camp to Howe who Alex recalls for his military failings in not capturing Washington after their losses. He is one of many aides-de camps and it is a far cry from the position he enjoyed at Washington’s side; the rations however are far better. His position is such that Alex can hardly affect the war through his words or actions and he knows even if he was to be promoted quickly it would still be far too late.

It is the cost of the war that defeats the British. If they had been able to defeat the colonists within the first year the war would have been over, but it was the resilience of the colonists that elongated the war and thus doomed Britain. Or at least that is how Alexander has come to understand it over many lifetimes, he is not so naïve to think anymore that the war was waged through battles but rather as through all things, money.

Alex tries though, if only to see the outcome, and when Howe in the command tent says they will not chase after Washington, Alex objects and insists that the Americans are weak currently and if stripped of their General, they will fall. Howe stares for a long moment before he agrees. The feeling in his chest isn’t quite excitement but perhaps something closer to dread.

Two days later Washington is captured and Howe studies the General with cold eyes, the man from what Alex has gleaned is actually on the colonists’ side but as the distant Uncle to the King must serve his country.

“My aide suggested we pursue you General,” here Howe gestures to Alex and he startles from his thoughts and it is strange seeing Washington as an enemy the warmth of his eyes is gone, Howe continues, “I was inclined to let the colonists flee but Hamilton convinced me otherwise.”

Howe departs after listing the terms of surrender expected and it is just Alex and Washington in the tent for a long moment before Alex states, “I reckon your men will free you within a week, General Howe is particularly lapse with security.”

“You’re not British and yet you fight for them.”

Washington states with a raised brow studying Alex with narrow eyes, he shrugs and says, “We all do things for our families.”

The words fall flat and Washington can tell, has always been able to see through Alexander no matter the circumstances. With a rueful shake of his head Alex turns and calls over his shoulder, “See you in Yorktown, General Washington.”

Three days later Washington is gone and Howe is furious at the slight to his honour but he is elderly and after a futile battle at some location Alex doesn’t bother to remember he requests a retirement and a month later he is gone. Alex is transferred to Cornwallis who views Alex like a particularly talented cockroach prone to turning and biting the hand it feeds; he bears with the distance between himself and his comrades through his usual method of writing copious amounts (some of which just so happen to be a tad more revolutionary).

The war slips in between days baking in the hot sun to the dead of winter found in frozen corpses with pale skin and Alex thinks of Valley forge and wonders if his absence is making a difference, if the troops are struggling for rations, he once convinced Congress to send. It occupies the time.

Before Alex is aware of it, the war is drawing to a close and once more the British are losing. Alex can say he tried. Could he say he attempted everything within his power to aid the British? No. But Alex doesn’t think that he could bear with the repercussions of his own actions upon those he has loved simply because it is one lifetime of many.

At Yorktown, Alex is given a command and he leads the troops fiercely wondering if this is where he’ll die in this life, on the battlefield with nothing to his name but that of a traitor to all that history will build. Across the battlefield, he sees Washington, the man cuts a striking figure even amidst the blood and shit. Somehow, Washington’s eyes connect with Alex’s even across the bodies and Alex tilts his head with a smile as he cuts down a soldier in blue.

The war ends and Alex abruptly feels stranded, unsure of what he is to pursue now. He could always integrate with American society, but the stain of fighting for the British would follow him for many years. Before he is really conscious of it, Alexander is standing in a port boarding a ship to England with a suitcase full of what little he owns.

It is strange to board a ship after he has only disembarked for so long, even stranger still is the actual trip which calls to mind his voyage from the Caribbean and indeed the ships of his own youth on Nevis, small rickety things that seemed to glide across the waves as if fashioned by the Gods’ will.

Arriving in England and then London is stranger still and Alex stumbles about uncertain from inn to inn for a week before a woman with a kindly face pulls him roughly from his daze in the middle of the bar demanding, “Got a degree?”

“Law.”

“A practice?”

“No.”

She plants her hands on her hips and introduces herself as Amelia Opie and drags Alexander out of the dim bar and to a boarding house which is apparently run by a friend. As they walk through the streets she stops for conversation with many people and Alex stands behind her feeling like a child with their mother. London is a strange creature and its residents’ stranger still.

“You need to set up a practice dear. Were you off fighting in America? Got your pension?” he nods she hums and continues, “I could tell with the accent, though not entirely American. Where’s your family from?”

“My father is from Scotland but I was born in the Caribbean.”

She peers at Alex for a long moment before she nods decisively and says, “Off to find your father then?”

“No…” Alex has never contemplated the idea, but now that it is there in his mind there is something to the idea that calls to the confused boy asking where their father was and amends, “Maybe.”

“Well best thing is to get settled. Are you planning on your own practice which I recommend, or working for one?”

“My own I suppose. I’ll need to examine the differences in English law though I reckon it’s not too different.”

“Mrs. Church is a wonderful woman, not costly and she’ll help set you on your feet.”

Mrs. Opie states as they slip down a side-street, Alex has never been to England, nonetheless London and it is all a bit overwhelming. They halt in front of a building similar to the ones cluttering the streets, cobblestone and shuttered windows seem to loom over him, the door bangs open when Opie knocks and a plump woman bustles out and enfolds Mrs. Opie into a hug and then seizes Alex as well.

The room he is shown to is nice enough, small with a bed and a dresser, but Alex has lived in worse. Having something of a goal helps to clear the aimless fog from his mind and Alex purchases an office space and sets up his practice reading up on English law late at night and arguing for both women’s suffragette and proper emancipation.

Time slips through Alex’s fingers in late nights and early mornings shaken awake by Mrs. Church and sent bustling to work with a hot mug of tea. London is strange, different to America, the people in of themselves are quite different with unerring politeness that never speaks truthfully and it is honestly refreshing. The memories of all that he has seen still trouble him and often Alex finds it hard to leave his bed once coaxed into it but he continues as all things must.

A year later he is comfortably settled in his law practice with a steady enough flow of customers when he arrives at the boarding house to the sound of exuberant noise. Mrs. Church shuffles out of the door and upon spotting Alexander drags him into the living room where two familiar figures are standing.

“Angelica Church, and my husband John.”

She introduces herself with a smile, her dark eyes are brilliant and Alexander feels as if the muscles of his heart have halted, he smiles and introduces himself, “Alexander Hamilton.”

“Alex is one of my boarders, he’s a lawyer. John is my nephew he’s taken over his father’s shipping company somewhat recently.”

Mrs. Church says with one of her wide and warm smiles and Alex feels something uncurl in his chest. John Church, who Alexander never knew well but passingly enough adds, “And we’ve decided to move to London.”

“I’m sure you’ll like it here, lots of unique things to do and certainly a change of scenery from America.”

Angelica and John trade a glance but Alex ignores it and with a tinge of regret states, “I’m afraid I must depart I have an essay demanding my attention but I’m sure we’ll meet again. For such a large city, London has many interweaving streets.”

He leaves before they can drag anything else out of him and in the coziness of his tiny room Alex let’s his breath rush from his lungs and curls against the sturdy frame of the bed until dawn first touches him.

“Alexander there you are! How are you?”

Mrs. Opie greets as she whirls into his office with flair and the flash of a smile. Alex greets her with a grin and let’s her ramble submitting his own responses when necessary but happy to listen to her before she pauses and with a tilt of her head states, “I do have some interesting news. My cousin has been commissioned to paint someone from the Royal family!”

“Truly?”

Alex asks stunned, the idea of royalty had always been a distant concept, something across the sea, but here in London it is impossible to avoid from the currency to conversation and still Alexander finds himself surprised at their existence.

Mrs. Opie continues to chat until a client arrives where after she bids adieu with a wave and flounces out the door easy as she had appeared. Alexander shakes his head and offers the young women a seat reassuring her about cost, about half of the cases he handles are pro-bono.

Throughout the course of the next year Alex often bumps into Angelica and her husband, whether in the streets or when they visit Mrs. Church. They engage in polite conversation and Alex tries not to dig for information about America, though from what he gathers they still haven’t restructured the constitution.

“Alex you are a writer no?”

Amelia asks him over tea at a small shop one day, she’s been working on her latest novel and they had been discussing the need to care for those in poverty. Alex nods, he has published a few pieces on economic systems, law, and whatever strikes his fancy (which just so includes a strange reinterpretation of his life that he published only recently and has been met with a feverish success that continually surprises him).

“My cousin, you remember him, the artist, has been invited to some public event or the other and he desperately needs someone to accompany him, I have another event to attend to, and he is rather disastrous with the fairer sex like yourself.”

“Like myself?”

Alex asks half offended even though he has for the most part avoided human contact in general. Amelia levels him with a narrow glance and says, “You’ll go with him?”

“Yeah sure. What kind of an event?”

“Some intellectual dinner at a castle or something. I’ll have my tailor handle your suit,” She pauses for a moment studying him before continuing, “Also, I have been looking into your family, from what little you told me. Don’t look at me like that Alex I know you; you would have avoided it until you died if I left you to it.”

Alex stares at her for a long moment before he groans letting his head embrace the table for a moment before he says, “Fine, what did you find?”

“You are very likely the grandson of Laird Alexander Hamilton, and your father was likely his fourth son. Owns a castle in Scotland.”

“Is he dead?”

Alexander asks the words soft and tries to push aside the strange notion that he has uncles, had a grandfather. Amelie studies him for a long moment before she pats his hand and says, “No one’s heard from your father in many years so currently he is presumed so. One of your uncles runs the estate now and he has children so I doubt you could seek any inheritance.”

“I’m not interested in that; I would have preferred to meet my father and subsequently punch him but fate is never so kind.”

Amelie looks slightly startled at his words before she shakes it off and says, “I’ll send my tailor over to the boarding house and please be polite I know what you’re like Alex, I swear you have the soul of a crotchety old man.”

“I will Amelie.”

Alex promises and listens to her ramble about women’s rights and Mary Wollenscraft and her recent scandals with a roll of his eyes.

Henry, Amelie’s cousin, is a nice enough man with a head of curly hair and a hooked nose, he is dressed nicely and appraises Alexander with an easy smile he shares with Amelie. The estate they enter is grand with a draft and too many windows to be practical and Alex strikes up polite conversation with the man about life in London.

It appears Amelie had obfuscated a few of the details as they enter the main hall to a whirl of people passing back in forth in intricate dances. Alexander’s chest plummets and he says quietly aside, “I must apologize in advance I am not the most talented of dancers.”

(not even practicing over many lives has ever made a spectacular dancer out of him)

“Neither am I, I’m sure we’ll make an amusing picture for the King.”

“The King?”

Alex stutters out and Henry stares at him with a raised brow and asks, “Did Amelie not tell you? No of course she didn’t. Over there in the copious amounts of red.”

Henry points out and Alex’s eyes are glued to the man who waged war against America for a long moment, he looks like a man, strange how Alex had always pictured him as inhuman, before he forces his gaze away. The night passes in a blur of dancing where they both attempt to not step on each other’s toes and introductions to more important people than Alexander can care to remember. Though he does remember, “Alexander Hamilton your majesty.”

“Ah my Uncle mentioned a Hamilton, fought in the war, didn’t you?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

At the end of the night he lets Henry press him against a wall and longs for the warmth of those he once knew intimately.

The years pass in cases and the strange urgings of his publisher for more novels which Alexander fends off with carefully worded missives. He keeps an absent eye on the growing nation of America but quickly becomes entranced with the politics of England, it is strange to be an outsider after so long of being inside where the action is happening and he can sympathize with Burr as the nation deals with Ireland and Scotland, and the failing sanity of their own King.

Time seems to always rear its head and it is no different when Angelica’s husband dies. Mrs. Church informs him of the news and Alex doesn’t hesitate to visit Angelica. There is something shocking to her grief; he has never seen this side of Angelica, damaged by grief and so far from her family. He helps her care for the children and the matter of property and will and waves away her thanks with a smile happy to help her.

“I’m moving back to America.”

She states quietly where they are sitting in her parlour the fire crackling in its hearth and it strikes a longing in Alexander’s chest for all the homes he has built and lost. Angelica stares at him for a long moment, the children are all asleep but London never sleeps and outside he can hear the sound of a carriage on cobblestone streets.

“Come with me Alexander?”

“Of course.”

Alexander replies not knowing what else to say, what else to do. Live out the rest of his days in London doing case after case? He is so tired. Angelica smiles and suddenly her weight is on him and Alex hesitates for a moment before she rubs away the frown lines and says, “It’s okay.”

Returning to America is strange after so long away, it felt to Alex that as soon as he left her shores that world had stopped spinning on, frozen how he left it, but it has changed as all nations do with growth. Angelica loops her arm through his as the children run ahead to the house they have piled funds for and says, “What are you going to do Alexander?”

“Open another practice I guess.”

“You could help me run the company?”

“Okay.”

Alex agrees knowing he has enough of a head for economics that it isn’t a bad idea. Angelica smiles at him and fills him in on the recent shipping logs, their business practices, it is all vaguely familiar to when he was in St. Croix.

A few days later Angelica introduces Alex to Eliza and her husband, a doctor with a kind enough smile and Alex chest burns with a strange torrent of emotions that he can’t quite parse, though he thinks he detects happiness and jealousy in equal measures.

“Alexander Hamilton.”

A voice says at a dinner Angelica has dragged him to for ‘socialising’ she is attempting to court favour for women’s suffrage which he supports of course. He whirls around at the familiar voice and there is Washington, older than the last time Alex had seen him in this life, staring at him not with anger but something perplexed.

“President Washington.”

Alex replies and the man shakes his head and says, “You knew about Yorktown.”

“Yes.”

Alex replies simply and Washington’s eyes narrow as he asks, “And you still fought for the British?”

“One can only do the same thing so many times sir.”

Alex answers and then Angelica is at his elbow distracting the President with a charming smile that hides the viper underneath as she asks about the Bill of Rights. Later as the party winds down Alex catches Washington watching him and tips his head in farewell, they will likely not meet again (and perhaps Washington will find a copy of Alex’s only fiction novel and he will wonder at the likeness of a man known only as the General).

This life is quiet. Alex works with Angelica, raises her children and sends them off to school, publishes essays on the constitution of America and ones on emancipation. He still wakes late at night with worn dreams of the past and at times can’t rise from his bed for the darkness that has invaded his head.

He dies at the age of sixty and thinks it was a strange but decent life.

7.

Alex feels the familiar sway of a ship beneath his feet and sighs, he feels weighted, innumerably so, by his past lives, and even drastically changing his own life circumstances has done nothing to end the cycle. He wants to cry; he wants to drop into the waters below and let them consume him. He knows it could perhaps be worse, that he might be forced to live through his mother’s death and the hurricane time and time again, that he has not been cursed with that misfortune at the least.

Still, he has seen enough of war, enough of America. When the ship docs he wanders the port until he finds a ship and asks a man leaning against the railing, “Where is this one going?”

“Paris. Got dreams of being an artist?”

The man replies with a derisive snort and the wheels begin to turn inside Alex’s head as he replies, “I can barely draw a rock. How much for the fare?”

“Can you work a ship?”

“Well enough.”

“We’re short on sailors till Paris, you cover the labour and we’ll call it even.”

The man says with a tilt of his head and Alex stares at the ship for a long moment before he glances over his shoulder at New York bustling behind him. He could try again, the war, his relationships, politics.

“Deal.”

“I’m Rob welcome aboard.”

“Alexander Hamilton.”

He introduces with a smile and lets Rob tuck away his pipe before following him up the gangplank the ship sways gently beneath his feet as Alex is shown to what will be his bunk. He sets down his luggage and when they pull anchor, he watches America fade into the distance.

Alex had known Paris was bad, that the gluttony of the Monarchy had reached levels of excessive that could only lead to Revolution, he’s not sure which life Lafayette told him this, his fourth? Fifth? But he remembers all the same. Seeing Paris is a different story, the people that fill the streets have sallow cheeks and there is something cold and bitter to the air attempting to hide behind the glamour of the monarchy.

He isn’t quite certain what he wants to do, he has not even officially received an education yet but the poverty around him is a motivator to find some form of work before his small funds run dry (at least he doesn’t have to worry about speaking French even if he receives more than a few dirty glances for his accent).

Alex applies to the University of Paris and is quickly accepted and offered lodging which he takes with a small measure of relief that he will not have to find a place of residence yet. French law is different to the law he has studied (he wonders if he might in one life study every form of law) but there are enough similarities that Alex devotes minimal attention to his studies and instead writes, he takes inspiration from Locke and explores the idea of a social contract between the ruling and the ruled, the necessity for all to be equal including women and slaves, and perhaps the potential of revolution.

He is not sociable with his peers but nonetheless his writing draws attention, France is not yet at the stage where revolution is an inevitability and so it is all rather incendiary. One classmate, Robespierre (and it can’t be _that_ Robespierre can it?) engages Alex in debates about the need for a monarchy, the type of government that should replace it and so on; it breaks up the monotony of classes and Alex finds their discussions at least entertaining.

Distantly, he hears about the American Revolution, it is whispered about in the streets and cafes, of which he has found a certain love for, the people seem to realise for the first time that it is a possibility, and furthermore a possibility that they might win.

Alex graduates school and sets up a practice that is for the most part pro-bono, but he is an excellent lawyer and draws in clients with enough money to keep him on his feet (he has never been good at caring for himself). It is simple work, but Alex has learned to enjoy it for at least a little while before he gets bored and seeks out some new form of entertainment.

It is that boredom that leads to Alexander bumping into a man in a crowded bar, it is one of the fancier ones and Alex is only there because a client insisted and offered a generous tip if he would, ‘for heaven’s sake leave your office’. The man is tall and glares down at Alex muttering, “French people.”

In the moment it takes for Alexander to recognize Thomas Jefferson of all people he is already responding, “Not French.”

“Oh?”

Jefferson asks staring down at him with a raised brow and something electric to his eyes and Alex recalls the feel of Jefferson’s floors pressing into his knees and the taste of him on his tongue as he juts out his chin and says, “American.”

It’s true enough even if he doesn’t have the citizenship to prove it.

Jefferson smiles, an actual smile that Alexander glimpsed rarely in his many lifetimes and tugs Alex into a corner of the bar and says, “Can I buy you a drink?”

“That would be nice.”

Alex agrees and lets Jefferson press one into his hands crowding his space. They talk about the Revolution and it devolves as it always has and likely always will, to politics and Alexander can’t refrain from arguing with Jefferson, though it is less a screaming match and more something lightning fast building between them.

He ends the night pressed beneath Jefferson and challenging the man to shut him up; he does.

Alexander goes back to work the next day and is only mildly surprised when a week later Jefferson steals into his office in his usual eye-searing magenta suit and folds languidly into his chair and pins Alex with a predatory grin.

“What brings you here Mr. Jefferson.”

“Please I think we’re past that, call me Thomas. And the French of course.”

“Of course, what about the French, Thomas?”

Alex asks playing along and watches Thomas blink nonplussed for a moment before he grins and says, “What else?”

They argue all afternoon and Alex lets Thomas lead him back to his place, he ignores Thomas’ weird interior design and focuses on the feel of nice sheets beneath his skin and Thomas’ hands on his hips.

“There’ll be a revolution soon.”

Thomas says the next morning as they’re lying in bed. Alex blinks blearily at him and says, “Of course. It won’t be as nice as the American one though.”

“Why not?”

Thomas asks staring at Alexander with narrow eyes, he is still struggling through the last drudges of sleep and with a shrug replies, “Cause we didn’t have a King on hand to get rid of, and we didn’t suffer as much as the people are right now. We were angry and wanted freedom like a teenager, these people want blood like a lover has been taken or a child from a parent.”

He is quiet for a long moment and Alex sinks back into the haze of sleep until Thomas says, “You’re probably right but it’s unavoidable.”

“It is.”

“I’m going back to America soon. Will you come?”

Thomas asks staring at Alex with dark eyes and an expression he can’t quite catch passes over his face and Alex thinks it might be fondness. He shakes his head and glances away from Thomas’ eyes afraid he might reveal too much as he says, “Not in this lifetime.”

“You could rise, your skill as a writer is well-known.”

Thomas adds his fingers are warm against Alex’s cheek as he strokes a lock of hair out of his face. Alex shakes his head patting Thomas’ hand with a shake of his head he says, “I think I will see what becomes of this Revolution. Have to have an American here to witness our legacy no?”

“You sound like the Marquis. I should introduce you to him.”

“Marquis de Lafayette?”

Alex asks already knowing the answer, his chest feels tight with something like excitement but what could also be nerves. It has been almost two lifetimes since he has seen Lafayette and it feels strange to contemplate that distance.

Thomas nods and sits up the blankets pooling around his waist. Alex stares for a long moment before he says, “That would be nice.”

A few days later Thomas invites him inside and Alex freezes at the sight of Lafayette lounging on a chair with a glass of wine in his hands. The man lights up at their entrance and Alex forces himself to unfreeze ignoring Thomas’ concerned glance as Lafayette bounces over and embraces him in typical French fashion stating, “Bonjour! You must be the Alexander Thomas is so infatuated with.”

He shoots a glance at Thomas who is blushing and says, “Yes I’m Alex a pleasure to meet you Marquis.”

“Marquis is my title call me Gil.”

Lafayette (he will always think of his friend as that) says with a charming smile and Alex grins and shakes the man’s hand as Thomas says, “Alex is staying in France so you will have at least one American nearby.”

“Vraiment?”

“Oui.”

Alex agrees and Lafayette’s face lights up as he says, “That is good news. Though I fear times ahead will be difficult.”

He wants to say, you have no idea, or maybe tell Lafayette to go back to America where he will be regarded as a hero. Instead, Alex’s nods expression grim until Thomas changes the topic and they settle into casual conversation, or as casual as one can be when talking about revolution.

Lafayette joins them that night.

Alex bids Thomas goodbye at the harbour and watches the ship leave for a long moment before he turns and heads into the city, he has much work to do and a letter to send to Lafayette before it is too late, if he can prevent his friend’s imprisonment he will.

Tension rises in the streets as the food shortages begin and Alex sees the way people regard each other warily as he handles most cases pro-bono and dips into what little savings he has to try and stay afloat.

As the children begin to starve riots break out and Alex watches from his small rickety apartment and thinks of the differences between America and France; in America they were an uneasy collective hardly bound together but here they are a mob driven by their anger and it is frightening.

Alex has heard Robespierre speak, he and Baptist, about a new order, and he cannot help but recall the Terror. Alex writes, it is all he feels he is good at anymore, still he encourages patience and caution and forces himself from his bed even when it seems pointless.

The Bastille falls and Alex prays that Lafayette has headed his advice as shots ring out on the streets. He does his best to encourage the development of a proper government but he is one voice in a sea of screaming souls.

He goes to the execution of the King and watches as they march a man who looks nothing like a King, worn and sad, they have dressed him up for the procession but it is something mocking. Alex looks away when the guillotine falls, he has seen too much death, and wants to believe that Americans were different but he has seen what happened to Loyalists and thinks humans often are capable of such cruelty (and kindness, he forces himself to remember that).

The Terror begins and Alex watches as the Robespierre who debated the need for a fair justice system twists into an unrecognisable corrupt figure enchanted with ideas of deism. Alex lays low during the Terror as the Committee of Public Safety are granted increasingly disturbing powers and the war on the borders of France rolls on. He still writes but it is under the name Publius and he tries to quell Marat’s bloodthirsty ravings. It is strange to realise as soldiers flood the streets and disperse the mob that Napoleon Bonaparte is in Paris, the man who will rule France is in the same city as Alex.

It is unsettling the trickle effect of the Terror, the suspicion of his neighbours who once spoke often with him, the lack of cheer amongst the populace, and the desperate cases of those who are attempting to avoid the Guillotine’s blade. At night Alex’s dreams are soaked in blood and sleep does not find him easily.

The coup occurs, one of many truthfully, and Alex recalls hearing about this, he has heard nothing from Lafayette and prays he escaped safely, and a week later Robespierre loses his head. Alexander mourns the brilliant student and begins to wonder if he should truly leave France before Napoleon becomes Consul for life and the fighting becomes a requirement; he stays anyway.

The people love Napoleon, he is their war hero who defeated Austria, the man who ended the Terror, who saved France. That’s what the people like to say. Alex listens to his clients as he adapts to Napoleon’s new laws and tries to make due with what he has.

Mandatory service is introduced and Alex introduces his lack of citizenship accompanied by the cane he has been using since Robespierre’s head was separated from his body and is excused. The fervour of the city is strange, the changes are fast as a whipcrack and Alex wonders how one survives it but his clients seemed to have acclimatised and even the ones who dislike Napoleon when he makes himself Consul for Life agree that he’s done the country far more good than the King.

As quickly as Napoleon rises, he falls and another King is slotted into place as he is exiled. Alex contemplates returning to America once more but there isn’t a place for him there in this life and he is if not content at least fine with spending the rest of this cycle in Paris whose catacombs beckon and whose streets, bloodstained as they are, capture Alex’s heart (Paris is old, far older than New York and it shows).

Napoleon returns and is quickly exiled once more after the Battle of Waterloo; the King returns and France settles into an uneasy peace. Early one morning while he is working on his latest manuscript, he is trying his hand at writing once more, there is a knock on his door.

“Marquis de Lafayette.”

Alex states surprised and opens his door for the man allowing him inside his small home which is a sight better than his previous place. Lafayette looks worn, his face drawn and lined with stress but he brightens upon seeing Alexander and follows him inside.

“You were right Monsieur Hamilton.”

“Alex please.”

He says and rests a gentle hand on Lafayette’s arm as he prepares a cup of tea for each of them. There is silence for a long moment before Lafayette asks, “How did you know what would occur?”

“I-I…” Alex trails off for a moment knowing this might occur and yet he does not have an answer. Finally, he continues, “I suppose you could say I see glimpses of the future. Not a complete picture and not always right.”

“And you saw the Revolution.”

“Yes, and your imprisonment if you stayed in France.”

Lafayette’s hands are white around his mug and Alex frowns and sips at his own tea the liquid warming his chest as the silence between them lingers. Lafayette is silent for a long moment before he finally asks, “Any other advice?”

“Be careful, France is not done with revolution yet.”

“So, there will be a day without a King?”

Lafayette looks hopeful and Alex has never lived that long but nonetheless he knows it is a certainty and nods. Lafayette smiles and rises to his feet shrugging on his overcoat on he turns to Alex and says, “If you are acceptable to the idea, I would like to visit you again, I miss America dearly.”

“As do I. That would be lovely Lafayette.”

Lafayette studies him for a long moment before he exits Alex’s house and is swallowed by the streets of Paris. Later they will dine together and talk about the revolutions, about Napoleon, and in bed Lafayette will say, “You have a thousand eyes Alex,” and he will cry for reasons he cannot name.

Life proceeds with small revolutions and Alex grows old his health begins to fail him but still he aids those he can, he watches the barricades go up and remembers Lafayette laughing and forcing him to help build one.

There is one revolution in the last few years of his life that is comprised nearly of students and Lafayette regards them with sad eyes as he speaks to their leader a young man with a head of blond hair and the spirit of a martyr. They drink to them when the barricades fall and Alex tries to preserve what he can find of them, of their legacies.

Not a month later he dies with Lafayette at his side.

8.

Alex is tired. It is a bone deep exhaustion, the kind that dulls the memories of all that was once good, like a murky pond that even beams of sunlight fail to pierce. Alexander stares at the water churning below and thinks about tipping over the prow of the boat, letting gravity take over. The plunge into cold water and just sinking into the oblivion of death until the next life.

Why not?

What’s keeping him alive? The prospect that he will get to live another life? Meet his friends again? Fall in love again? Only for it to mean nothing when he would have to begin in the next life. Do it all over again for it to mean nothing.

Oh sure, he could expand his horizons, learn new languages and skills, travel to countries he had never even head of. But for what? How did that affect him when Alex’s passion was in law and economics? It made no difference. Not when Alexander didn’t feel like writing, didn’t feel like working.

All he could see when he closed his eyes was all the loss he had seen and experienced, the sickness that had stripped so many people from his life, the blood and shit of war, the fear, the hate, the cruelty, cowardice, jealousy, greed, betrayal.

What was the point in living each life?

Wasn’t that the question?

The ship docks and Alexander stumbles off the ship towards a seedy hotel and pays the appropriate fee. He feels numb, emptied of all that once made him Alexander Hamilton. He is a shadow of himself, an imitation of what he should be and it is apparent. God he is old, too old, there are reasons he thinks that humans do not live so long. His brain is stuck trying to process too much, it is shutting down.

The room is dark with off-white sheets and the scent of something fowl in the air. Alex glances around the room, and stares for a long moment at the bed as the idea solidifies in his mind. There is something peaceful to it, ending it quickly, none of the pain, none of the years of experiences that won’t matter to anyone but him.

The bed sheets are coarse against his fingers as he ties them and throws them over the beam of the ceiling. His mind draws forth the picture of his cousin and he jerks to standstill for just a moment thinking of who will find his body. Of this legacy of an Immigrant who escaped and ended it. Will his absence be felt? But it doesn’t matter does it? Not when it will all be washed away in the seemingly endless cycle of his life.

The fabric is coarse around his neck and Alex glances around the room once before he steps off the bed and lets the noose pull taught.

Alexander dies at nineteen.

9.

Alexander opens his eyes with a heavy sigh, the feel of the noose around his neck lingers and he inhales roughly. Asphyxiation isn’t pretty. Alexander glances dully at the shore that draws ever near and wonders if it will end. There must be some limit he prays, if he is to live a thousand lives, he will surely go insane. If this is some penance, he must pay then surely, he has paid it already. What lesson is there for him to learn?

He wanders the streets of New York for a night his thoughts twisting around in circles as he buys a cheap pocket knife and finds an alley that is vaguely familiar. He settles down, the cold seeping easily through his thin clothes and deep into the marrow of his bones.

Alex slits his wrists with two precise cuts learned in one life or another and leans his head back against the brick wall and waits to die. The pain is distant, everything is distant, from the sound of a door opening to passing footsteps as darkness fills the edge of his vision. Alex lets it claim him.

The first thing that filters through his senses is a dull aching pain and a parched throat. Alex blinks groggily unused to waking with the actual feeling of pain rather than a phantom sensation. Something shifts and a vaguely familiar voice says casually, “Oh you’re up.”

A face appears over Alexander and he flinches back for a moment until his eyes focus and he recognises a young Hercules Mulligan staring at him with a furrowed brow as he asks, “What?”

It comes out as more of a croak and Hercules reaches over and grabs a glass of water, helps Alexander sit up enough that he can sip slowly at the water and observe his surroundings. He is on a cot in a small room filled with sheets of paper and his arms are bandaged from his elbows to his wrists.

“I found you outside my shop, you were half dead. What happened? Someone try to mug you?”

Hercules asks gently like he is speaking to a spooked animal as he sets the water down. Alex stares straight ahead and cannot help the words that fall from his lips, “You should have let me die.”

The man startles for a moment his face pale before he asks softly, “And why is that?”

“Because it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

Alex replies desolately hating the way his eyes are burning with unshed tears and the way his arms flare with pain when he clenches his hands into fists. Hercules shakes his head with a deep frown and says, “I don’t believe that. Your life matters, I’m sure the people around you care for you or are their opinions invalid? Just because things might feel hopeless right now doesn’t mean they’ll remain that way forever.”

“No, fuck, you don’t get it. I have relived my life eight times. Eight lives I have gone through where I have fallen in love, done amazing or horrible things, and in the end none of it matters because every time I die, I wake up on the same date, in the same place. Nothing matters because nothing I do changes anything; it is all erased when I die. Why shouldn’t I die?”

Hercules is staring at him with wide eyes and a broken laugh bubbles from Alex’s throat as he continues, “You don’t believe me but it’s true. Your name is Hercules Mulligan, you’re a tailor’s apprentice, you’re thinking of joining the Revolution because you know it’s your chance to socially advance. I could go on and list the events of the next fifty years.”

There is silence for a long moment and Alex focuses on the rusty brown of his bandages until Hercules says quietly, “I believe you, but I don’t think death is the answer to this problem. Have you tried anything in particular, living a certain way, if it’s a curse?”

Alex stares at him for a long moment before he sighs and replies, “I can’t say I’ve tried everything but I researched every avenue spoke to witches and priests alike and they were both baffled, though the priest posited I could be in purgatory. I’ve tried living my life similar to my first life alternating only small changes, I’ve gone to different continents, I changed sides, I became president, I outlawed slavery. Nothing. It changes nothing because all that I’ve done doesn’t matter when I am nineteen again. So, why shouldn’t I die?”

“Dying won’t change anything either. At least if you live you can learn, you can better yourself, you can fall in love with hundreds of different people, read all the books in the world. Why shouldn’t you live? You’re tired of living, you’ve seen too much I get that but there must be a reason why you’ve been trapped in this cycle and continuously dying isn’t going to fix it. The only way anything is going to change is if you keep living.”

Alexander stares at Hercules for a long moment his mouth hanging open before the tears well up and begin to spill down his cheeks and he cannot stop the ugly sobbing that bursts from his mouth. Hercules folds him carefully into a hug, one warm hand stroking his spine as he says, “Hey it’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

“I’m so tired.”

Alex says and the words are a cry of surrender or a plead for mercy he can’t tell which. Hercules hums the sound soothing and says, “I know, it’s okay though, we’ll figure it out.”

They stay like that for a long time until the fuzziness of sleep begins to steal over his mind and Hercules helps him lay back against the soft pillows and says, “It’s okay sleep, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Alexander sleeps.

Time passes strangely at Hercules’ home; he wakes up blearily to Hercules sewing or scribbling designs on sheets of paper with a pencil tucked behind his ear and a furrow between his brows. He forces Alexander to eat but doesn’t ask him about his lives unless Alexander willingly volunteers the information and even then, the questions aren’t demanding just curious. It’s refreshing and Alex feels something settle in his soul.

When he asks, Hercules teaches him how to sew patiently correcting his stitches and Alex falls into the repetitious movement and finds it is almost meditative clearing away the mess of his thoughts and leaving only a finished product. It’s as he’s working on a pair of pants that he states, “We fought together in the war in my first life. You, me, John, and Lafayette. Then you left to be a spy, you would take the measurements of British officers and ask them when they needed it ready by so that you could tell when the next battle was.”

Hercules hums and helps Alex with a difficult inseam and says, “What did you do Alex?”

“Lawyer I worked with Burr, he was my first friend, then my political enemy, he killed me in my first life but I killed him in my third, I think, or rather we killed each other. Anyways I became the Treasury Secretary and set up the national banks.”

“Did you have a good life?”

“I made a lot of mistakes,” Alexander admits quietly and continues, “I cheated on my wife, I allowed my son to be killed in a duel, I let my anger lead me to dueling Burr. I fixed most of those mistakes in my second life though thinking it was a second chance but then I woke up again on the ship.”

“I don’t suppose there’s a lesson you feel you need to learn?”

Hercules asks with a hum and Alex shrugs and says, “I think I’ve learned patience which is what Burr always wanted me to learn, I hope I’ve learned to be more empathetic to those in my life even though I must admit I’m usually rather obsessed with my impact on… oh.”

Alexander thinks suddenly and wonders if that is the answer. Hercules regards him for a long moment before he reaches over and ruffles Alexander’s hair and says, “Come on let’s get a drink, if whatever revelation you had is right it’s not going to make a distance between now and tomorrow morning.”

“You’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

Hercules agrees gruffly and drags Alex to a bar where with a wink he introduces him to John and Lafayette who greet him with less energy then usual, John says quietly, “Glad to hear you are doing better Herc was quite worried.”

That explains it and Alexander grins at Hercules who frowns and rolls his eyes as Lafayette says, “Oui he has made us all quite curious of you.”

They fall into an easy conversation and when Burr enters the bar Alex sits with Hercules and listens to John pester the man with a small smile. He leans into Hercules’ side absorbing his heat and ignores the desire to go and speak to Burr.

“You’re not enlisting?”

Hercules asks a few weeks later and Alexander peers blearily up from his essay on… something, and replies, “I’ve seen enough bloodshed. I’ll be part of the spying, help end the war quicker, win us some battles.”

He is studied for a few moments before Hercules nods and ruffles Alex’s hair and says, “Be careful, people are going to start thinking you’re a seer with how little you filter yourself.”

Alexander wants to protest but admittedly the other day he told Lafayette that if the Bastille fell to flee France and he told John that he shouldn’t leave his wife and children even if he was unhappy with the marriage, death wasn’t the answer (hypocritical he knows).

The war begins and Alex forwards letters through Hercules to Washington and keeps the store clean, keeping up on what he can manage without Hercules’ assistance and when he can’t the man often takes leave and show Alex how to do it. It is simple and Alex settles into the rhythm of it, lets it wash away some of the past that built like rust on iron until he is not quite gleaming but still polished once more.

Hercules returns to the shop to help with the ‘spying’ but for the most part he keeps a careful eye on Alexander and forces him to eat and sleep. Alex shrugs and folds to Hercules’ demands placing whatever article he is working on away and following the man to his bed where there is a distraction of a different kind.

Before Alex is really conscious of it the war is over and he joins Hercules in bidding Lafayette farewell, the memories of the Terror are still fresh in his mind and he cautions Lafayette once more before stepping back and watching as the ship crests the horizon.

John visits their shop when he is in New York and though he is weary he tells Alexander quietly, “I’m happy I got to know my daughter. Even if fighting for emancipation is a pain in the ass.”

Alex laughs and ducks behind the counter for a moment before returning with a pile of essays which he sets before John and says, “I would suggest publishing most of them anonymously,” he adds another sheet and continues, “These are senators who can be convinced through bribes or blackmail, and these are ones who just need some common sense talked into them and they’ll agree.”

“Thank you, Alexander.”

John says and Alex smiles and goes back to tailoring a suit. Even if he isn’t interested in foraying into the political fields of battle, he cannot stop himself from writing about what he is passionate about.

Washington appears at their doorway late in the year and Alex stops for a long moment before he plasters a neutral expression on his features and greets the President. Hercules shakes his head and says, “Sir, this is Alexander Hamilton my informant.”

“The one with such precise knowledge?”

“The very same.”

Hercules says with a grin and Alex shakes Washington’s hand with a smile as the man says, “Thank you for your service Hamilton.”

“Happy to help America sir.”

The years pass, Hercules gets married to a lovely woman and has a child (he asks if he should find his own place and Hercules shakes his head and asks where he is going to find another idiot to look after). Alex writes and publishes anonymously; he watches as America is shaped around him and doesn’t mind as he focuses on the latest piece a customer ordered.

Alex is surprised when Burr slips into their shop with a drawn face and states he needs mourning clothes. Alex quietly takes his measurements and doesn’t pry, just lets his presence ground the man like Hercules does for him on the bad days.

“Thank you.”

Burr says quietly before he leaves and Alex pats him gently on the shoulder and gets to work. Burr comes back again a few months later and they chat about politics, literature, religion, and it is easy to find that camaraderie with him once more.

And maybe one night he lets Burr take him home, reacquaints himself with the man’s body and ignores Hercules’ knowing looks the next morning.

Alex is thirty-four and is walking home when he sees a man pull a gun on a woman in a red dress. He doesn’t hesitate and pushes her out of the way, the feel of the bullet biting into his chest is familiar. The woman helps him stumble into Hercules’ home and with a shaking hand Alex wipes away the tears on Hercules’ cheeks and hears distantly the man say, “Promise me you’re going to live Alex. You’re going to find a way out, I believe it.”

“I promise.”

Alex says, half an hour later he dies.

10.

Alex opens his eyes the echo of a bullet like the embrace of an old lover as he stares at the approaching shore. He still feels tired, exhausted in a sort of way that sleep can’t erase but the darkness of his past feels somehow shed, like old skin sluiced away by the waves beating against the prow. He wants to believe, has to believe that this life will mean something, that this strange cycle can’t continue indefinitely.

He has always been obsessed with legacy, leaving an impact on those around him, or what has always seemed more important, on history. He has always wanted to rise, to be something, or someone, even anonymously, even when he pretended not to care. It’s not ignoble to want to shape history, to leave a mark, to be something when the world tells you that you are nothing.

But it doesn’t matter not really. Not when Alex will just for all likelihoods wake up again at the end of this life. He decides he’ll live this life for those around him, try to give them the best lives possible and if that means he somehow leaves a mark then it is a positive outcome but not the reason.

New York is familiar around Alex as he studies law, by now it is as familiar as the back of his hands and Alex devotes most of his time to essays examining the need for independency and more than a few pieces on the impact of their actions.

“Pardon me, are you Aaron Burr sir?”

Alex cannot help but ask when he sees Burr in the streets and the script which he once knew so well feels strange on his tongue, it is like a dish from his childhood, all the ingredients have remained the same but he himself has changed. Burr frowns but as they speak the expression slips away and Alex speaks about the revolution about the future of politics as they enter a bar.

“Talk less, smile more.”

Burr says passing Alexander a drink and he nods in agreement with a kind smile and replies, “But if you hesitate, if you always wait, that chance may slip aside. It’s prudent to know when to smile and when to talk.”

Burr stares at him for a long moment and sometimes Alex forgets his youth, forgets that he isn’t supposed to be so wise. After a moment, Burr says, “You may be right, but I prefer to wait and see what the outcome will be.”

Before Alex can reply the door slams open and Alex grins at the sight of his three friends, something warm in his chest as he recalls Hercules’ last words, Lafayette’s hand in his, John’s letters tucked beside his heart. The song and dance are the same and while Alex has never been good at dancing, he is nothing but adaptable.

The time before the war truly starts is strange drifting in drinks with his friends, speaking with John about the family he has left at home, with Lafayette about the revolution, Hercules about the future of America. More often than not, he finds Burr and drags him into conversing with them or speaks with Burr alone late into the night (and if he wakes from nightmares to the reassurance of whatever person he is bunking with that night they don’t speak of it).

The war begins in earnest and Alex lets Hercules fuss over every scrape and responds in kind, he listens to John rant and later they speak about the melancholy that has followed their lives, about living with only certain parts of themselves visible. Lafayette smuggles wine into their tent and he speaks with him about France and when Lafayette states, “I did not know you have been to France Alexander?”

“Only once.”

Alex replies with a shrug and talks about the tiny cafes and the chill of the catacombs and lets his friends wonder. Burr is not quite a regular fixture, but Alex coaxes him out at least once a week and more often invades Burr’s tent and talks with the man late into the night until Burr threatens to gag him staring blearily across the tent at him.

When Alex receives Washington’s summons he waits outside the General’s tent until his fingers are chilled before he enters. Burr smiles at him, his eyes warm and Alex grins back at the man as he ducks outside of the tent. Being Washington’s aide-de camp feels _right_ and Alex has forgotten the warmth of Washington’s approval and the tender care that Alex in his first life attempted to avoid but welcomes when the General finds him hunched over his missives early into the morning.

The war slips into winter as Alex supplies what information he can from a contact, Washington regards him with narrow eyes the first time Alex mentions it but he listens and in the aftermath of the victory he presses his hand to Alex’s shoulder. Still, winter is hard and Alex works relentlessly to secure what aide he can whether through his words or other means. He can feel the concern of his friends but ignores it (as he sometimes ignores the questions about when he learned to sew, or why he knows too much about English and French law).

The Winter’s Ball appears as if out of thin air and John drags him to Hercules who with a roll of his eyes straightens his uniform and Alex lets Lafayette play with his hair until he meets their approval. The Schuyler sisters are radiant in the candlelight and Alex heart is torn between the two, he wishes there was some way that he could bring happiness to both, but he can’t control their hearts or their minds and it has always been one or the other.

Eliza’s hand is warm in his and he twirls her carefully around the ballroom and doesn’t try for fancy words, or what he knows works, just speaks to her and the smile on her lips widens during the night. He dances with Angelica and lets their conversation carry them even as he mumurs an apology when she passes him once more to her sister.

He dances with John, then Lafayette, and Hercules lets them twirl him around the dance floor with a smile, speaks in a low voice to John and knows that he understands even as Washington steps in with an amused grin and leads Alex around the floor.

Six weeks later he marries Eliza and she only shakes her head when Alex brings John to meet her and presses a kiss to John’s cheek her hand warm in his. Burr’s smile is genuine as he congratulates Alexander and he can’t help but reply, “Theodosia is lucky to have you Burr.”

Burr stares at him for a moment before he shakes his head and says, “I’ll see you on the other side of the war.”

The war continues and Hercules goes back to New York leaving Alex feeling adrift, God he is so tired and it would be so easy. John and Lafayette do what they can to ground him and Alex let’s the warmth drown out the thoughts and memories that threaten to overwhelm him.

Monmouth occurs and Alex can’t help the words that spill from his mouth in the aftermath of the duel his chest aching as he says, “It was necessary.”

Washington stares at him for a long moment and Alex feels as if the man can see through Alex, through the shell of youth the he dawns to protect what lies underneath. Finally, Washington sighs and says, “Go home Alexander, take a break, even for a little while.”

Eliza’s smile is gentle when he steps into their home his hands framing the swell of her stomach. She strokes her hands through his hair and wipes away the tears and it is all too much and in the comfort of their parlour he lets the words spill forth, so many lives, so much pain.

“And so much joy. Alex, I know who I married, even if I didn’t know everything that has shaped you, I know you.”

Eliza says and Alex rests his head in the crook of her neck and lets the world be, lets it be enough. A month later Alex presses a kiss to her cheek and returns to the war and speaks quietly to John before he can leave for the South his words desperate and rambling. John presses a kiss to his lips and promises to stay, Lafayette finds them like that and joins them his presence chases away the chill of early spring.

The Battle of Yorktown is a triumph and Alex leads a command the echoes of other battles lingering in his mind as he watches the white flag rise over the battlefield and the world turns upside down.

The last night before Lafayette’s ship is to depart and John leaves for the south, they gather and Alex basks in the warmth of his friends knowing this might be the last time in this lifetime that they are all together even though he wishes otherwise. They press together and Alex let’s the familiarity of their touch consume him, wash him away into the early morning.

Alex sits on the bed, it is still dark, and stares out the window.

“Alex?”

Lafayette asks voice thick with sleep and he glances over his shoulder at the three of them curled around each other and shakes his head, “It’s nothing.”

“C’est n’a pas rien. Qu’est que ce?”

“What time is it?”

John’s voice rings out blearily and Alex laughs softly and says, “Too early for anyone to be awake.”

“And yet you all are.”

Hercules gruff voice fills the small space and Alex sighs and says, “I apologize there is a lot on my mind, too much happening inside my skull.”

“Come back to bed Alexander.”

John says and Alex climbs in between Hercules and Lafayette, wraps his arm around John and is home. He tells them later when the sun is up about what he has seen, whispers warnings about the revolution, and tells John about his daughter and the life she lives without him.

He sets up a practice next to Burr and the man rolls his eyes but often visits in the evening insistent on dragging Alex home, mostly they spend long hours debating and talking and Aaron eventually says, “You know too much Alexander.”

“It’s more than a few lifetimes worth of knowledge.”

He agrees mildly and Aaron stares at him with a frown before he is suddenly crowding Alex’s space and mumbling about, “Infuriating Hamiltons” and Alexander grins and presses back until Aaron is bent over the desk; he agrees to help with Federalist papers.

He makes sure to take time for his family, he helps Philip with lessons on economics and history, shows him how to sew small tears and when Eliza gives birth to their daughter, he holds her in his arms and sings half-forgotten lullabies.

Jefferson returns from France and Alex accepts Washington’s offer knowing that it is the only way he’ll be able to have a voice, one that can push for women’s suffrage and emancipation. It is strange seeing Jefferson once more and their first cabinet meeting Alex is polite but argues his point succinctly and persuasively.

He goes upstate with Eliza, Angelica, and their children, plays with them in the lake and let’s his wife take care of him, speaks with Angelica late into the night. He leaves a letter for Burr about Maria Reynolds and prays it is enough to help her.

John pushes for the south and while it is divided with Madison the support is enough that Alex isn’t afraid of his debt plan failing, still he agrees to dinner and debates with Jefferson about Locke and Rousseau and it isn’t quite friendly but it isn’t the hatred of his first life. When the dinner is done and the deal made Alex sinks to his knees and seals it his eyes on Jefferson.

Burr wins the seat and Alex doesn’t get angry just pats him on the shoulder with a smile and let’s Aaron frown and push him into his office even as he asks gently about Theodosia (and maybe he advises him that his daughter shouldn’t travel the seas and Aaron listens, he always does).

He settles into a strange friendship with Jefferson one in which they debate constantly even in the bedroom and Alex enjoys it. He rolls over one morning and Jefferson asks, “Are you going to run?”

“For President?”

Jefferson hums and Alex thinks of a life where he did, where he was confined to a wheeled chair but he was able to do so much, thinks of the distance between Eliza and him (this life she knows what he’s like and shakes her head at him when he returns the next morning).

“Adams will run against you, and you’ll win but you’ll make me Vice President.”

“Now why would I do that?”

“Because it’s better than John Adams and I’ll endorse you.”

Alex adds as he buttons his shirt and glances at Jefferson who is propped up and watching Alex as he asks, “And what do you want out of it?”

“All people are created equal.”

“Not going to happen.”

Jefferson says not as if he disagrees but as if it is literally impossible. Alex laughs and says, “I’ve done it before, and with me as VP you’ll do even better convincing the south. Besides the women want it and if their husbands object it won’t end well.”

“How do you know?”

“Like I’ve said I’ve done it before.”

Alex replies tying his cravat and slipping into his boots. Jefferson blanches and asks, “What, when?”

“I’ll see you later Jefferson.”

“Fine, I’ll do it.”

Alex hears as he walks out the door and he muffles a laugh into his chest and returns home where he is greeted by Eliza and Philip, she raises a brow but lets him inside with a shake of her head and a letter from Angelica.

“I’m stepping down.”

Washington says, stepping into Alex’s office and he glances up from the form he is filling out and blinks staring at the man for a long moment before he says, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I think you of all people deserve retirement sir. Though I might request permission to visit you.”

“Permission granted,” Washington says with a warm smile studying him for a long moment before he continues, “Be careful Alexander.”

“Always sir.”

Washington snorts and leaves Alexander’s office and he stares at the space for a long moment before Burr appears as if summoned asking about the Election and Alexander laughs and pulls him inside.

Jefferson wins in a landslide against Adams with Alex’s careful words behind him and Alex becomes Vice President in all but name. The months blur together as Alex charms senator after senator with their plan, John helps as does Burr, but for the most part it is Alex.

“Take a break for God’s sake Alexander. We’ve passed the Amendment for women’s suffrage so take a break. Lafayette is arriving from France any day and I know he will be happy to see you.”

Jefferson says with a shake of his head when he stumbles on Alex writing yet another missive to another senator. He peers blearily at the man for a long moment before replying, “There’s still so much work to do though and Lafayette won’t mind.”

“I’m sure he’ll disagree. And we have time.”

Jefferson drags him from his chair and Alex sighs and says morosely, “I always have too much and not enough of it.”

As they draw closer to implementing a plan for gradual emancipation Alex grows paranoid and creates the first Presidential defence unit, Jefferson complain often about the soldiers following him but Alex says quietly, “Just deal with it for me.”

Jefferson must see something in his expression because he nods. Alexander is glad for the protection when at a dinner, shots ring out and Jefferson is tackled out of the way by a soldier. Alex receives a bullet to the leg for his participation but it is nothing he hasn’t dealt with before and the cane is almost familiar under his hand.

The bill passes and Alex presses a grinning kiss to his wife’s lips and later toasts his friends with champagne on his breath. Jefferson shakes his head staring at him and says, “You did it, you crazy bastard.”

“You all helped a little bit.”

“A little bit?”

John asks outraged and Alex grins and jostles his shoulder and let’s Aaron argue that they all pulled their share even though they all know Alex did more than any of them. He curls into Aaron’s side and thinks about Eliza waiting at home teaching Philip piano.

Jefferson runs for a second term and Alex steps down as Vice President (he insinuates that Burr would be a good VP) and when Jefferson questions him late at night Alex sighs and says, “I did what I needed to, I just wanted to make sure that our people have a future, that they’re equal under the eyes of the law. I need to take time for my family now.”

“Like Washington.”

Jefferson says finally in the dim lighting of the office and Alex is quiet for a moment before he says, “I suppose so. If you ever need any advice or just want to say hello you know you’re always welcome.”

“I know.”

Alex returns to his law practice and writes essays on the financial system, the future of America, bust mostly he spends time with his wife and children. They visit Mount Vernon and Washington tucks him into a warm hug while Martha and Eliza chat and the children run around, Philip is in boarding school now and Angelica misses him terribly.

Philip comes to him with the duel and Alex speaks to Eacker, the man attempts to challenge him to a duel but Alex has long since misplaced his honour and casually threatens to destroy the man’s career; that makes him back off.

The years slip by and Alex watches as emancipation gradually spreads through America, he meets with Hercules often for drinks and when John is in town, they all laugh and sing songs that entertained the long nights.

Aaron and Theodosia jr. visit often and it isn’t surprising when a few years later Philip marries her. What is surprising is holding his own grandchild in his arms, though he had done so before, there is something tender to a new lifeform.

Alex is old, he has never been gifted with a long lifespan even in the best of lives and knows that his time draws near. Eliza is often busy with the orphanage, their children are all but grown living their own lives, they have known their father, Alex prays that he has done enough.

Alexander Hamilton dies.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading I hope you all enjoyed this exploration of Hamilton, and I apologize for any historical twisting (except for everyone being sort of bi), some of it would be plausible such as Hamilton meeting Robespierre where other stuff is less than likely. Comments are always appreciated, thank you all for reading!!


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